the
sacristan, Terenty's bosom friend. He is coming along, staggering
from the wind.

"Uncle, where is Terenty?"

"At the kitchen-gardens," answers Silanty.

The beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gardens and
there finds Terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face,
very long legs, and bare feet, dressed in a woman's tattered jacket,
is standing near the vegetable plots, looking with drowsy, drunken
eyes at the dark storm-cloud. On his long crane-like legs he sways
in the wind like a starling-cote.

"Uncle Terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "Uncle,
darling!"

Terenty bends down to Fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread
with a smile, such as come into people's faces when they look at
something little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved.

"Ah! servant of God, Fyokia," he says, lisping tenderly, "where
have you come from?"

"Uncle Terenty," says Fyokia, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of
the cobbler's coat. "Brother Danilka has had an accident! Come
along!"

"What sort of accident? Ough, what thunder! Holy, holy, holy. . . .
What sort of accident?"

"In the count's copse Danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree,
and he can't get it out. Come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his
hand out!"

"How was it he put his hand in? What for?"

"He wanted to get a cuckoo's egg out of the hole for me."

"The day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble. . . ."
Terenty shook his head and spat deliberately. "Well, what am I to
do with you now? I must come . . . I must, may the wolf gobble you
up, you naughty children! Come, little orphan!"

Terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long
legs, begins striding down the village street. He walks quickly
without stopping or looking from side to side, as though he were
shoved from behind or afraid of pursuit. Fyokla can hardly keep up
with him.

They come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towards
the count's copse that lies dark blue in the distance. It is about
a mile and a half away. The clouds have by now covered the sun, and
soon afterwards there is not a speck of blue left in the sky. It
grows dark.

"Holy, holy, holy . . ." whispers Fyokla, hurrying after Terenty.
The first rain-drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dusty
road. A big drop falls on Fyokla's cheek and glides like a tear
down her chin.

"The rain has begun," mutters the cobbler, kicking up t